


Forever and Ever, Amen

by SecretSecret



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series), Karate Kid (Movies)
Genre: Angry Bobby, Bossy Bobby, Church Service- Interrupted (Again), Feelings Admission, Feelings Realization, First Kiss (together), Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs (together), In a church (together), Internalized Homophobia (mild and brief), Johnny is a real piece of work, M/M, One Shot, Pastor Bobby "Not A Priest" Brown, yes we're back to talking about wangs and 'tang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29291754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretSecret/pseuds/SecretSecret
Summary: He’s sauntering brazenly up the center of the aisle toward me, and I say a quick prayer of thanks that he’s not drunk this time (though I file that away asmoreof a reason to light into him, later). He looks great, in fact, the magnificent bastard. His jeans fit perfectly, his blond hair tousled just enough to give it that air of careless sexiness. And that damned leather jacket…I’m noticing how much cursing there is in my inner monologue now, and, well. Johnny Lawrence does this to me. He’salwaysdone this to me.----------Or, the one where Bobby and Johnny get their moment-- and maybe a little more than that.
Relationships: Bobby Brown/Johnny Lawrence
Comments: 18
Kudos: 18





	Forever and Ever, Amen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StrikeLikeACobraKai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrikeLikeACobraKai/gifts).



> This is my love letter to Pastor Bobby “Not-A-Priest” Brown and his lifelong friendship with one Johnny Lawrence. I imagine this taking place some time after Season 3, in a mostly canon-compliant world, except where we can imagine that Johnny and Carmen are Not A Thing, at least not by this time. 
> 
> I’ve based Bobby’s faith and his church’s service on liberal Presbyterianism as it occurs in the US. I haven’t personally practiced this faith, so mistakes here are my own (as are all mistakes in this unbeta’d work).
> 
> I do want to warn that Johnny’s internalized and self-directed homophobia does show itself, very mildly and briefly, and is handily quashed by our favorite Pastor. But if you’d prefer not to see it, consider this a warning. 
> 
> This story is for StrikeLikeACobraKai, an old hand at Bobby’s voice, who frankly deserves the world (and one that includes more love for her OTP).

I love Sunday mornings, especially when they’re like this one, sunny and clear. I like to get up early, take my time over a light breakfast and coffee. I dress for the day, then walk next door to the church, make sure everything’s set to go. I already cleared the pews out on Friday evening, reordering the hymnals and pamphlets, so one walkthrough tells me they’re ready for today’s service. I step back up to the dais and fetch the book of scriptural readings I’ve chosen for today, bringing it to sit upon the lectern.

There’s a while yet before my first parishioners will arrive, so I duck through the door behind the altar to the sacristy, and through there to my office. I like to sit here and reflect in silence, bring my awareness to the presence of the Lord, who is always with me. I finished today’s sermon yesterday morning, and it’s already sitting there in my mind, ready for me to convey to my congregation. It’s going to be a good morning. 

Around 10am Ms. Marcher arrives, always prompt to prepare for our 10:30am Sunday service. She’s our volunteer organist and very sweet, though I worry about how her arthritis has been working up lately. We greet each other warmly, and she takes her seat, playing a quiet background melody as I step to the front of the dais, and my congregation begins to trickle in.

It’s a good service today, relatively well-attended, though the size of the congregation is always dwarfed by the size of the church. They put their hearts and souls into the hymns, though, and they’re attentive and responsive to my sermon. It’s satisfying to really feel like I can be there for these people-- that they know they can depend on me for advice, wisdom, an ear for their problems, or a shoulder to cry on. I’ve been doing some version of that for my whole life, so this seemed a natural calling for me.

We’re nearing the end of our last hymn now. After this is the part where I charge my parishioners to go forth, bringing God’s light out with them into the world, spreading loving kindness with their words and deeds. The chords of the hymn dwindle, and I rise to my feet. 

“Let us go forth today in Christ, and spread His kindness wherever we go. Let us bring compassion and acceptance to those who need it, and show our community by our actions that God is love.” I’m about to continue, but then there’s a voice, loudly interrupting from the back of the church.

“You really believe all that sunshiney, rainbowy crap, Bobby?” Most of my congregation turns to look.

He’s sauntering brazenly up the center of the aisle toward me, and I say a quick prayer of thanks that he’s not drunk this time (though I file that away as  _ more _ of a reason to light into him, later). He looks great, in fact, the magnificent bastard. His jeans fit perfectly, his blond hair tousled just enough to give it that air of careless sexiness. And that damned leather jacket…

I’m noticing how much cursing there is in my inner monologue now, and, well. Johnny Lawrence does this to me. He’s  _ always _ done this to me. 

“Johnny, take a seat.” I say it as calmly as I can.

He doesn’t, he just looks me in the eye and keeps coming. “Come on, Bobby. You know how shitty the world can be, no matter how good or bad you are.” His eyes flicker, and I know he’s trying to get a rise out of me. 

I clear my throat loudly, exasperated, as he’s made it almost halfway up here. “ _ Yes _ , Johnny. I absolutely  _ do _ believe in the unconditional love, acceptance, and… _ forgiveness _ of the Lord. And I do my  _ very best _ to emulate it, no matter how unfortunate the world can be. But I need you to take a seat,  _ NOW _ .”

And he does. He actually just  _ does _ it, taking a seat in the nearest pew and looking up at me expectantly.

In my heart, I say a little prayer for forgiveness as I rush through the end of the service, blessing my congregation and sending them forth. At last, even Ms. Marcher has found her way out, and it’s just me, closing up the church doors, and making my way back to the pew where Johnny is sitting.

He’s looking up at me with wide, faux-innocent eyes and just the hint of a smile, and I can feel a curl of anger in my gut. I know this act, and I know I’m susceptible to it, and he does, too. I grab him by the shoulder and yank him to his feet. “Come on.”

He makes a little sound of protest, but goes along as I push him up the steps of the dais, around the altar, and back through the sacristy door, which I shut behind us. I’m about to get angry, in that special,  _ heightened _ way that tends to happen when Johnny is around, and I’d prefer not to explain that to my parishioners. We’ve all got our demons. 

I release his shoulder, a little more roughly than necessary. “Johnny, what the hell?”

“Hey man, can’t a guy come drop in on his buddy once in a while?” He drops his voice conspiratorially. “And what’s this about ‘hell’? I thought you were a man of God.”

“I  _ am _ ! And you can drop in, sure, but have some consideration! Call me on the phone, agree on a time, meet me at a coffee shop! You don’t just barge in yelling at the top of your lungs about God’s love being ‘sunshiney, rainbowy crap’ in the middle of a church service!”

“To be fair, it seemed to be the  _ end  _ of the service.” He quirks that little lopsided grin at me, the one that’s made me helpless for forty years. 

I shake my head to clear it, and breathe in deeply, but I’m still growing angrier. “Not the point, Johnny!” I yell. My emotions don’t get the better of me much anymore, not since I found my peace and brought some balance into my life, but I’m not a rock. Besides, Johnny’s always had a talent for exposing the extremes of my nature.

He narrows his deep blue eyes and peers at me, looking maddeningly similar to the seventh grader I befriended back in the fall of ‘79. “I thought priests weren’t allowed to get mad.”

Oh no, he did  _ not _ just take it there. Not  _ again _ . Whether he actually can’t tell the difference between Catholicism and liberal Presbyterianism, or he’s just riling me up on purpose, I don’t know, but I’m finishing it  _ right _ now. I grab him by the lapels of that damned jacket, and the words hiss out through my teeth. “I’m  _ clergy _ Johnny. I’m not a saint. I  _ absolutely _ get angry.” I shove him against the wall, hard enough to make my point, and get right up in his face. “And for the absolute  _ last _ time, I am NOT. A. PRIEST.”

He pauses for a moment, taken aback, but then the surprise leaves his eyes and he’s all cocksure mischief again. “Yeah, I remember you  _ saying _ your wang’s allowed to get ‘tang, but Bobby, I’m just not seeing the  _ proof _ .”

That’s the absolute last straw. That is  _ it _ . At this moment, I’ll make my point in any way I need to, because I’ll be damned if he walks away from here without  _ fully _ understanding me. The words sound crass leaving my mouth, but I know they’ll make an impact, especially with the angry hiss my voice has become.

“Maybe that’s ‘cause my  _ wang _ doesn’t WANT  _ ‘tang _ . Ever think of that, Johnny?” And I can see he’s actually surprised by that one, the way his eyes widen and his eyebrows fly up toward his hairline. This time, because I’m angry, and because I’ve finally caught him on the back foot, I move in before he can come up with some other derailing retort. I crowd right into his face, and I let my anger beat out my trepidation as I kiss him--  _ hard _ . 

It’s a bad idea, I’m certain of that. I’ve had enough proximity to Johnny Lawrence through the years that I’ve absolutely had my chance to do this-- over and over again, in fact-- and I’ve never taken it. He’s my best friend. Even during his rough years when we fell out of touch-- when I didn’t know where to find him-- that was true, and I’ve never felt like risking  _ that _ for  _ this _ . He’s never, well...never  _ indicated _ he might feel the same, so. It hasn’t seemed worthwhile. 

So maybe it’s my anger, or maybe it’s seeing him here with his shit together for the first time in a year...or maybe it’s something to do with those three funeral services I’ve done over the last month for guys under sixty. Guys  _ our age _ . Maybe that has something to do with it, too. Whatever the reason, I’ve got him against the wall now, my mouth moving over his, holding him there with my body, and, well. It’s my one chance to get it right, to tell him the truth, no matter how he responds. Might as well make it count.

When I pull back from him, his eyes are wider still, and his mouth hangs open a little, lips pink and parted, and I  _ am _ still angry, though I’m also vindicated. His tongue touches his bottom lip like it hurts (and it  _ might _ ).

He says my name then, rough and tousled, says it just the way he always looks. “ _ Bobby _ …” That sound pulls at me, whether I want it to or not. I’m still angry, but I’ve said my piece (as it were), and I brace myself for his rejection. 

It doesn’t come. Instead, I watch him take a deep breath in, and then his face flies back toward mine, his hands kind of cradling my head, pulling me back in, and he’s kissing me back. Our lips are working together now, and then his tongue is right  _ there _ , and it’s so perfect, so  _ much _ . 

Now I’m angrier than ever. To think he’s had  _ this _ in him, and he’s never told me? Hasn’t give me so much as the tiniest  _ flicker _ of a sign? Something old and ugly that’s still in me, even if it’s a stranger now, makes me want to hit him or hurt him, but  _ that _ at least I know how to suppress. I just kiss him harder, because it’s what I need, and maybe what he needs, too.

That’s when a peaceful presence inside of me speaks up, and...listen. I know people like to scoff at Christians, and Lord knows our faith has committed  _ far _ more than its share of sins in the name of God, but I’m deeply grateful to the tempering influence it has on me, sometimes. Because that balanced voice reminds me that I never took the risk either. And if I had my reasons, even with my loving family and my faith shoring up my self-worth, wouldn’t Johnny have his reasons too? Maybe doubly so?

I break away from him, but gently, and lean our foreheads against each other as we catch our breath. When I speak, I take care, because I’d regret nothing more than scaring him away now. 

“Johnny...how did I not know?”

He sighs, but he keeps his hands on my shoulders, thumbs stroking there like I’m a touchstone, and that’s so familiar it hurts. “I didn’t let  _ myself _ know, for a really long time. Guess it felt too late, by then. And...you’re my best friend, Bobby. That comes first.” I nod a little, because I can relate.

“Do you still want this? Now?”

He blinks a lot then, and I know that means he’s not sure how to say what he’s thinking. But when he finally does, I could almost laugh...because for all that Johnny is jaded and worldly, there’s still so much he doesn’t know. (I don’t laugh, because it still hurts, and I hurt  _ for _ him, knowing he thinks this could be true.) “Won’t they like...kick you out or something? For this?”

“Johnny.” I put on my authority voice, my brook-no-arguments voice, and I look him right in the eye. “Discrimination does not exist in  _ this _ church,” I lean in, right to his ear, my lips almost touching it, and whisper there-- “ _ does it? _ ” I lean back, giving him a pointed look.

He’s looking at me like I hung the moon and stars, and my heart flips like it always has when he does that. His lips form a lopsided smirk and he leans a little in toward me. “No… _ Pastor _ .” Complete with eyebrow wiggle. He  _ has _ known, this whole time, then. Of course he has.

I smile, wide and unreserved, because I can’t help it. “Glad we got that ironed out. I’ll ask you once more-- do you still want this?” 

He reaches one hand up, letting it rest against my face. “Always, Bobby. I always will.” 

Well. I’m not going to waste another minute, then. 

I press into him again, then, and it’s amazing how kissing can be that much  _ better _ , just because we’ve said those few words to each other about it. I can admit I’ve imagined this before, but the way the real thing surpasses it is almost beyond words. His mouth caresses mine like it’s meant to be here, his tongue meeting mine making me feel urgent and rushed, like we’re teenagers again. I press my whole upper body against his, and it’s immensely thrilling, just having him there against me, being allowed to be close to him that way. 

He widens his stance a little, just enough that I can step in closer, pinning him there with my hips, too. My body is already responding to him, and when I shift a little, I have to catch my own breath-- because he’s responding too, hard against me there, pressing back toward me like he knows I want to give him more than this. My hands fall into the open sides of his jacket, running over his torso through that tight grey t-shirt he’s wearing, marveling abstractly at how he  _ feels _ so much like he used to  _ look _ , under there, even after all this time.

He must be feeling eager too, because his hands drop to my belt. I’m more than willing, but something curls in my gut, making me want to do this  _ my _ way. I grab his hands and jerk them away, pinning them back against the wall by the wrists, just for a moment until he gets the message. I release one wrist and place a finger against his chest, leaning in to murmur into his ear again. “Hands to yourself.” Then, softening my tone, “Let me take care of you, Johnny.” 

The way his head tips back against the wall, eyes shut, the sound that comes out of his mouth as he gives a little nod-- it’s clear he wants what I want, and he’s trusting me to get us there. In no world would I ever let him down.

I’m the kind of lover who likes to take their time. It’s always been best for me that way, and most of my partners have been happy with that. But right now, for me and for Johnny, it feels right to do this quickly. We’ve been waiting long enough. I bring my lips to his neck as I reach down to work his jeans open, kissing him over his pulse point while I get my hand in close to him. And then-- I’m holding him in the palm of my hand, stroking gently, and pushing his clothes out of the way, just enough.

Letting go isn’t what I want to do, but it takes two hands to get my own belt undone, push down my suit pants and free myself, too. Then for just a moment, just because I think we both want to feel it, I bring my hands back up to Johnny’s shoulders, kissing him deeply on the mouth as I rock our hips together, reveling in how we feel there, skin-to-skin, at last. The sounds in the back of Johnny’s throat are telling me it’s feeling this way for him, too, and my heart is absolutely full over it, over the way he’s responding, like a reflection of my own feelings. And the way he’s letting me control this, keeping his hands off, rocking against me, sure, but letting me set the pace...it’s absolutely gorgeous. 

We’re doing that for a bit, until Johnny starts making these little needy noises, like it isn’t really enough. I’m feeling the same, so I reach down and take both of us in my hand. It’s sort of an awkward angle, and I have to be careful since we aren’t exactly  _ prepared _ for this, but we’re both so keyed up by what we’re doing, by  _ who _ we’re with, that it doesn’t take too long for it to feel the way we want. I’m stroking us together as we trade our breaths back and forth, and his hands finally rest on my shoulders, around the back of my neck. I understand-- at times like this, sometimes you really need something to hold onto, and I’m holding onto him, too.

That familiar heat is starting, low in my abdomen, and the cracked-open, wrecked expression on Johnny’s face makes me think he’s pretty close, too. It’s not much longer and I’m giving in to it, feeling it wash over me, and it’s unbelievable, because then I get to watch him go through it too, and know that we’re sharing it. He clutches his hands at the back of my head, pulling my face into his shoulder, and we stand like that for what feels like a while, breathing and trembling together.

When we pull back, he’s looking at me with something like wonder. Then I feel his fingers moving over my scalp, and suddenly he’s laughing, his whole face lighting up with it. I can’t help smiling in response, but I also ask, “What’s so funny?”

His face looks like the sunshine on Sunday morning, the kind that falls over you and wakes you slowly, warming your skin with its gentle heat. “Your  _ hair _ man. Where the hell did all your hair go? All through high school you had those luscious locks,  _ fuck _ . I can’t believe I missed my chance to get my hands in there.” And he’s talking about regrets, but he’s smiling like the sun, so I don’t worry too much, right now.

“Well, we can’t all be blessed enough to still look thirty-five in the right lighting,” I say, raising an eyebrow at him.

We clean up enough to be passable and walk next door to my place, where I lend him a fresh t-shirt and walk him back to the door, since I’ve got to get ready for afternoon service. We kiss again there, and it’s fairly chaste (or if it’s not, I maintain that the Lord will forgive me, where Johnny Lawrence is involved). Before he leaves, he gives me a look, and I can’t quite read it until he speaks.

“So. Want to grab that cup of coffee sometime? You free tomorrow?” 

I laugh. “How about dinner, and how about tonight? Meet me at seven?”

He does.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this little journey! I’d love to hear what you think of it.


End file.
